


Shoulder to Shoulder; Cheek to Cheek

by Tasyfa



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: 12 Days of Malex 2019, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Gay Character, Epistolary, M/M, Vignettes, mention of other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tasyfa/pseuds/Tasyfa
Summary: Becoming an airman had been an anti-goal until that day in the shed. When Alex subsequently finds himself in Basic Training, he resolves to make the best of the situation. But he never quite lets go of his first love.A story told in glimpses of a young man's life, spanning a decade and beyond.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 49
Kudos: 134
Collections: 12 Days Of Malex 2019





	Shoulder to Shoulder; Cheek to Cheek

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuchASeeweedBrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuchASeeweedBrain/gifts).



> A Malex Santa fic for SuchASeeweedBrain / daffietjuh 
> 
> Happy Malex Santa Day, lovely. I hope you enjoy! <3  
> Love, Tas

* * * * *

_G,_

_Today I learned I can shoot. Well, any idiot can shoot, that's kind of part of the whole gun problem, but I mean, I'm actually good at it. Like, scary good. And it's weird because it feels good to be really good at something here? I'm pretty middle of the pack on the physical stuff, all the running and push-ups and wall climbing and whatever, but this, I'm great at._

_It almost takes me out of my own brain, the way it focuses me. That bothers me some too, but this is my life now and it's nice to be starting to feel like I'm not going to completely suck at it._

_A_

* * * * *

"Al! Come on, man, move your ass!"

Alex rolled his eyes as he tucked the sealed envelope into the plastic storage box and put the closed box back into his footlocker. He addressed the woman lounging on his bunk in a conversational tone. "I'm gonna fucking kill him if he doesn't stop calling me Al." 

She flicked him an unsympathetic glance over the top edge of her book. "Shouldn't've said you don't like being called Manes, then, Manes." 

"Forgive me if my eighteen year old ass doesn't hold its liquor well yet." At that, Alex was grateful he'd bitched about the whole Manes Man deal, not anything about his sexuality. A bunch of other barely adult people could understand the frustration of a parent's rigid ideals, even if they didn't know a fraction of the truth about Alex's father. But talking about being gay would get him kicked out, and to his own surprise, Alex was finding his place here. 

"You're too skinny," she observed with a smile. "Not enough fat and muscle to absorb the alcohol." 

"I'm working on that," he informed her dryly, and she laughed. "Seriously, Thompson, any ideas on putting a kibosh on Al?" 

"Well, the only thing I can think of is to present them with a better nickname option."

Alex blew out a breath. "Right. Okay, um... fuck, I don't know. I sing and play guitar, does that suggest anything to you?" 

Judging by the way Thompson's face brightened, it did. "I know. Every time he calls you Al, yell, 'I'm not Paul Simon!' Eventually they'll start calling you Paul and/or Simon. So if you can live with that..." 

"You're a genius," Alex threw her a brilliant grin as he laced up his boots. "Anything is better than Al. I mean, Manes _is_ my name, so I don't actually have a problem with it ---"

"When you're not in your cups," she interrupted. 

"Exactly." He was going to have to build up a tolerance before drinking that much in public again, and possibly not get _drunk_ drunk except in the company of those he trusted absolutely. 

Alex was still working on acquiring a single person in that category. 

Boots fastened, he stood up. "You sure you don't want to come with?" 

"What, to hang out playing cards because nobody's got any contraband and we're all underage and can't get served in town?" Thompson snorted a laugh. "I'm happy with my book and some peace and quiet, thanks." 

Before Alex could respond, they heard Ortiz yelling from outside again. "Al! Get a move on, dude!" 

Flashing Thompson a grin, Alex headed out, bellowing, "I'm not Paul Simon!"

* * * * *

_G,_

_Believe it or not, I'm back in school. They have you do a whole whack of aptitude tests and I scored really high. I mean, I don't have a guitar or a skateboard anymore to distract me, right? So here I am, enrolled in officer school, with a focus on computer science. By the time I'm done, I'll have what's basically a degree and I'll be a commissioned officer with an actual career._

_I don't hate it._

_I mean, I don't love how I got here - in the Air Force - but, I'm here. I'm going to get an education now, which I never thought much about, you know? And I'm going to be an officer, the first one in my immediate family._

_I don't hate that, either._

_A_

* * * * *

"And you're certain you understand?"

Second deployment, first time in command, who knew how many years now of following orders, and Alex's natural response to a questioning tone like that was still fuck you. He was professional enough not to show it, though. 

"Yes, sir, I am crystal clear. What’s inside my head is more valuable than my head itself," he paraphrased, and his CO chuckled. 

"That's one way to put it. Who do you trust to take the kill shot if it becomes necessary?" 

The discussion didn't even feel real. Who could he trust to put him down like a rabid dog if an op went so badly that Alex was in imminent danger of capture?

There was an odd sort of comfort to the notion that the information in his brain was worth more than his life. It carried him through some of the worst days, knowing that he had some intrinsic value, even if it hadn't grown there. 

"Ortiz, sir."

"You've been together since Basic, right?" 

"Yes, sir. He's become one of my closest friends."

"Difference in rank hasn't affected that at all?" 

Alex refrained from shaking his head, remaining at attention. "No, sir. He's proud of me, and doesn't want to be an officer." 

"Smart man," his CO opined, and now Alex smiled. 

Loud, impatient, sweet Edgar Ortiz, with his terrible dad jokes and his bright laugh and his unshakeable support for Alex. He would do it clean, and do it right. 

If it came down to that, Alex trusted him with his death as much as with his life.

* * * * *

_G,_

_I used to have nicknames. Al - briefly - which led to Paul and Simon, and Manes. Rarely does anyone call me Alex. I trust I don't have to explain how the first three go together, although there is a story behind it. Maybe I'll get to tell it someday._

_Now, though, I'm just Captain. Or sir. Getting used to it, slowly. I keep finding myself looking around for the guy in charge, usually so I can get approval for some course of action, and then remembering that I'm it. I'm the guy in charge. If we're at base, then yeah, there's brass around and I still have to check in. But in the field with my unit, what I say goes._

_I'd be lying if I said I didn't like it. It isn't the responsibility, exactly, or the power. It's the ability to protect my people. I mean, that was kind of why I joined the Air Force in the first place. After... well, you know... I needed to learn how to do that. I have now, or made a damn good start at it, anyway, and I'm still learning. I think I always will be._

_I guess I don't have to talk in euphemisms anymore. DADT has been repealed for a while now. I did some celebrating, not gonna lie, but mostly it's a huge weight off. I don't have to monitor everything so closely. I can just get on with my job. And my life, I suppose, but that kind of is the job right now._

_A_

* * * * *

"Sir?"

Alex only just heard him as he reloaded. Pointing the gun at the ground, he moved one side of the ear protection aside. "Urgent, problem, or other?" 

"Other, sir. You can shoot first." 

If it had been anyone else, Alex probably would have kept the rejoinder to himself, but he knew Ortiz would find it equally funny. "And ask questions later, huh?" grinning at the man's infectious laugh. 

Then he replaced the ear protection, thumbed the safety back off on the gun, and took aim; standing stock still for a few seconds as he sank into his quiet space, his hold steadying, vision sharpening, shoulder braced for the recoil. Then, and only then, did Alex fire, emptying the clip in quick succession to produce a tidy, close-knit scatter pattern within the circle inscribed on the target. 

When he lowered the weapon, Ortiz let out a long, low whistle. "You shoot like a sniper." 

Alex chuckled, "I don't think so. I still type better than I shoot." He dealt with the spent clip and the gun as they spoke. 

"Seriously, Captain. I've been to the shooting range with my brother when we were both home on leave and he does the same kind of thing, goes all quiet." 

The obvious pride made Alex smile. "He's a Marine, right?" 

"Yeah," Ortiz confirmed. He rolled his eyes. "I know, that's Navy and we're Air Force and all, but." 

"Hey, at least he's not Army," Alex teased, and they both laughed. "So tell me. What is the non-urgent, non-problem, other thing that made you come looking for me?" 

"Um," Ortiz stalled as they began to walk back to quarters. "A guitar. See, one kind of, just, turned up, right, and a few of us remembered that you used to play, and ---"

"Just turned up?" One eyebrow rose sharply. 

"Well... yeah?" 

Alex sighed. "Tell me there wasn't anything illegal involved in obtaining this guitar." He knew it was a bald-faced lie; no way was a random guitar simply appearing in camp. 

"No, sir, nothing remotely illegal. By standards here or back home," Ortiz assured hastily, and Alex relaxed. That, he could count on as truth. 

"And where is this mysterious guitar now?" 

"Um, Ladden is playing it." 

"Oh, shit," Alex winced. "Don’t tell me he's singing?" 

"Unfortunately he is, sir. He can play alright but he doesn't seem to do purely instrumental pieces." 

"And y'all want me to rescue you." He was amused now; this was the fun kind of 'crisis' that came of long hours playing the hurry up and wait game, when everyone got bored and tempers began to fray if the situation wasn't managed. 

"You are the Captain." 

He was at that, and it was his situation to handle. And while he hadn't touched an instrument in years, Alex found his fingers itching for the feel of the one he now knew was in reach. 

When they reached the mess tent, Alex strode ahead as Ortiz dropped back and slightly behind him, providing the silent support he was so good at. 

The noise hit first, raucous and loud, jangling guitar taking a back seat to the tangle of voices talking. Alex didn't even bother trying to listen to any of what was being said. He simply took a deep breath as he stopped near the outer edge of the crowd, then spoke from the diaphragm, projecting his voice right over top of theirs without yelling. "I hear we've got a guitar in the house. Pass it over and I'll play for you." 

Awareness of his presence rippled through the group in a visible wave and the noise level dropped considerably. Ladden rose from the table where he'd been getting harangued and brought him the instrument. "Here, sir. I tuned her. And, here's a pick," he dug the small plastic triangle out of a pocket, depositing it into Alex's waiting palm. 

"Thank you, Ladden, I appreciate it," and he did, truly. It wasn't the man's fault he couldn't stay on key. 

Alex walked to the table just inside the perimeter of people and perched on it, feet on the bench seat, guitar settled across his lap like an old friend. He strummed a few chords, checking the sound, but Ladden had done a good job with the tuning and it didn't need adjusting. 

"What are you going to play?" someone asked, and Alex chuckled. 

"I'm trying to think of something a bit less, fuck authority, than most of my repertoire. It seems prudent, under the circumstances," he said dryly, to general laughter. 

A sing-song came from the middle somewhere, "Cap-tain was a re-bel!" 

"Weren't we all at seventeen?" Mentioning the age gave him an idea and Alex smiled. "Okay, this one is a favourite of my best friend back home." 

He launched into Van Morrison's _Brown-eyed Girl_ , lifting his voice to carry the slow bounce of the lyrics. Maria loved this song. Liz had too, once upon a time, but Alex had a matching pair of selfies by each of two oceans from the summer after high school graduation, and then Liz had virtually disappeared. Mr. Ortecho kept Maria up-to-date with Liz's academic achievements, the infrequent news at least providing proof of life, but neither he nor Maria had had any direct contact. 

And it wasn't like he talked to Maria that often, but enough that Alex still considered her a friend. They both avoided mention of anyone in their graduating class, or anything to do with Rosa. He knew it was, at best, a half-healed wound for her. 

Alex let his wayward thoughts pull forth the music, keeping mainly to classics most of the group would recognise. Party music, Rosa had called it, when they played duets while the others danced in the spaciousness of the closed café. 

When he started to flag, nearly an hour had passed. A few people were up and dancing around; most contented themselves with swaying in their seats. It was nice to have an appreciative audience. 

Alex cleared his throat. "Last song, guys. I'll chance this one." 

He picked out the intro, lilting melody broken by chunks of silence, and then the full-bodied strum that became the backbone of the tune as he sang Green Day's _Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)_.

Alex didn't hold back the grin when someone held up a burning lighter, followed by a smattering of others. He'd been part of school concerts and had played the odd house party full of underage drunk people in senior year, but he'd never had an experience quite like this. It felt good, being able to share music with the people under his care; being able to use an ability that had its roots in human connection in a place that was bred for destruction. 

Being able to lighten their hearts and their spirits, if only for an evening, and to feel his own soar alongside.

* * * * *

_G,_

_I haven't written for a while. It was too hard, I guess. Something. But in one of my therapy sessions I mentioned the letters, and my shrink thought it might be good for me to start again. She gave me this notebook, so, here we are._

_Here is Maryland, by the way. I'm in Walter Reid hospital. They transferred me here from Germany once I was stable enough. Now I have a whole medical team: psychiatrist, couple physical therapists, prosthetist._

_Yeah, that last one, that's for my leg, or what's left of it, and what can be added back in steel and plastic so I can walk again, once I fucking learn how._

_I don't know if this is a good idea or not, writing to you. I mean, for all I know, you're married with kids by now. That's not exactly uncommon in New Mexico. You never did have any trouble attracting girls. I can't imagine you ever wanting to read all this shit anyway. It's really just me pissing in the wind, hanging on to a memory._

_You know I can't quite picture what you'd look like now? I _remember_ , but neither of us was done growing yet. I know my shoulders got broader in my early twenties; did yours? Do you have a beard or scruff or do you go clean-shaven? Not that it matters, I suppose. I have some of those options dictated by my job. Hopefully you don't. _

_Who knew writing a letter could be this exhausting? It's not even a long one but I get so tired now. I hate it. They tell me it'll get better as I heal and that better be the fucking truth, know what I mean?_

_I guess I'll write again later, tomorrow or whatever. It feels a little better just saying all this shit, putting it out there. I guess it doesn't matter if you aren't real, exactly. If I'm writing to an imaginary grown-up version of a boy I once loved. Who the fuck cares, anyway._

_A_

* * * * *

"It's a box." Michael's confusion was obvious as Alex placed the opaque plastic box on the coffee table in front of his husband. "Don’t things in boxes usually come wrapped, especially for wedding presents?"

Alex chuckled. "Usually, yeah, but this has been through a lot of being banged around and extreme temperature changes over the years. I didn't want it to fall apart for the sake of a shiny bow." 

"This was overseas with you?" Michael asked, the hand reaching for the box halting, outstretched yet hesitant as he looked up at Alex, surprise swirled through with a hint of wariness in his gaze. All perfectly natural and expected reactions and Alex smiled as he sat on the coffee table and lifted off the lid, putting it aside. 

A double row of envelopes filled the box, sitting side by side with the smooth fronts all facing towards Michael. Alex pulled out the first one on the right and handed it to Michael. 

"The date, is that correct? That's like, two weeks after you left for Basic," he identified it, turning the envelope over to find it sealed. The paper had yellowed some in the intervening years but the glue had held. Michael glanced at him, obviously baffled. "Is it okay if I ---"

"Here," Alex passed him the letter opener he'd literally had up his sleeve, the slim pewter handle topped with a 3-D cowboy hat. 

Michael laughed. "Cute, I like it. Thank you." He used the tool to carefully open the envelope then set both aside, freeing the paper from its long imprisonment and unfolding it. 

Alex watched his face as he read. It wasn't a long letter, but he could see when Michael realised what it was he held in his hands, and by extrapolation, what the likely contents were of the other envelopes. There was a soft sheen over hazel eyes and his voice was gruff, incredulous as he asked, "The whole box? You were writing letters to me, all that time?" 

"Nine years, yeah," he nodded. "Stopped when I lost my leg, first for the obvious reason - recovery - and then, by the time they'd done the surgeries and I was stable enough to transfer Stateside, I really didn't want to talk to anyone about anything." 

"Sounds like you," he teased gently. Alex rolled his eyes but had to concede the point. 

"That's where these come in." He picked up the two slim black notebooks curved over the back envelopes and held them a moment, feeling his carefully constructed explanations slip away. Alex cleared his throat. "When I finally started talking to my psychiatrist, I talked about Iraq, yeah, but also you, and these letters. She thought it might help if I went back to it and gave me a notebook. Just one to start with; the second I had to ask for," he remembered, smiling. 

"Alex," his name was only two syllables but Michael could pack them with so much emotion, his voice cracking on the exhale. 

"I want to share this with you. All of it. Even the really shitty parts," he stumbled into a laugh, giving the notebooks an illustrative shake. "I don't remember the letter contents much. My policy was, date the paper, number the pages if necessary, date the envelope, and seal it immediately. No editing and no takebacks." 

Michael put the letter he still held aside and patted his knees. "Come here, darlin', please." 

Placing the notebooks on top of the open box, Alex went, sliding onto Michael's lap and into his arms, held close enough to feel Michael's heartbeat. The safety and love he'd found right here were the reason he could share this, now; could let Michael into all the dark and lonely places Alex had inhabited during those years away. 

"I love you," he whispered, never meaning it more. 

"We're home now," was all Michael said in reply, a declaration and a promise at once, and the only words Alex needed to hear. 

Here. Together. _Home_.

[Et fini]


End file.
